


miles from where you are

by icarusinflight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, M/M, pre-endverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 23:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/pseuds/icarusinflight
Summary: The world ends on a Tuesday.Dean doesn’t find out till the next Thursday.





	miles from where you are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaffre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/gifts).



> This was written for the DeanCas Mixtape Fest
> 
> The song prompt I chose was _'Set The Fire To The Third Bar'_ by Snow Patrol.
> 
> Many thanks to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for the beta

The world ends on a Tuesday.

Dean doesn’t find out till the next Thursday.

It feels like there’s something monumentally wrong about that. Like somehow Dean should have known the second it happened. Should have felt the moment when a no turned into a yes, and the world’s descent started along with that one word.

But he doesn’t find out till Thursday.

 

 

_(Part of him wishes he still didn’t know)_

_It'_ _s the end of the world._ It’s his excuse for splurging on the expensive Scotch. The bottle is out of place at the dingy bar he’s decided to drown his sorrows in. The bartender raises her eyebrows at his request, but accepts his credit card all the same. She’s pretty, and another night Dean might think about trying to hit that—and hell, the world is ending, it’s as good an excuse as any—but Dean can’t bring himself to muster even a smile.

The Scotch is stronger than he’s used to, burning at his throat and on the way down as he gulps it down in a way it’s definitely not intended for. It’s a sipping Scotch, more at home in a chief executive’s office—or even a lawyer’s.

He drowns the thought out with another drink, draining the glass. His eyes sting, pricking hot and wet, in a way he’s not entirely sure is related to the alcohol.

_Don't think about that_ _._

The bar is a distraction in itself, if not a wholly welcome one. It’s too loud, too warm. Even worse are the people, drinking and laughing, and just generally going about their daily lives. It itches under Dean’s skin, pulling like badly made stitches.

He drowns that with alcohol too—or tries to.

He drinks to smother the coldness he feels inside. Drowning it out with the burn of alcohol, and when the churning stops being _because of Sam_ and becomes _because of the booze_ he figures that at least he's succeeded with this one thing.

 _You were supposed_ _to keep Sam safe._

All his life he’s had one job—keep Sam safe. Dean’s fucked it up before of course, the shtriga, when he was put into Sonny’s home, when he left Sam behind, only for him to watch Jess burn. It’s a series of failings really, all building up to this moment, but this is the ultimate failure, and there’s no coming back from this.

The thoughts plague him, thoughts of Sam, thoughts of the times they’ve had, the times they’ll never have. He doesn’t know where to go from here, so much of his life has been focused on this, on family, on saving people, but what is it worth when it’s all lead to this—to losing the only blood relation he has left in the world.

The noise is too loud, and the bar too hot. This was meant to be a distraction, but even with the alcohol burning in his veins there’s nothing that can distract him from the thoughts racing around his head. It’s too much. The place, the people, feels like it’s pressing down on him from all sides, like maybe he’s the crawfish in the pressure cooker. He doesn’t have a plan when he pushes away from the bar, taking the bottle with him as he goes. His only thought is _get out_ and _get away_.

Anywhere but here.

* * *

His head is dizzy, and Dean tries to tell himself it’s just the alcohol as he stumbles his way out of the pub. The cold air does a little more to sober him, but he knows he’s not even close to sober enough to drive.

Even with the world ending he can’t yet bring himself to take that risk.

He leaves the Impala in the bar parking lot.

It’s not ideal, and he says an apology as he passes her, dragging fingers over her fender, over the pieces he’s put back together with his own hands—and if only people were so easy to reassemble. If only he could take his brother and remove Lucifer like a damaged engine block.

 

 _Sam._ The words feel like a prayer in his head, and he knows Sam can't hear him; knows the words are falling on deaf ears. And it's not like they've talked much lately anyway. The self imposed separation has been one of the harder things Dean's done in his life, harder than watching Sam walk away for Harvard, harder than watching his father die. But it was supposed to be for the best. It was supposed to _prevent this_.

And now it's too late to pick up the phone. He can't talk to Sam even if he wanted to.

 

 _Lucifer would_ _hear_ _his prayers._

 

He's still an angel after all. Still in possession of all his angel hoodoo. And even a fallen angel can hear your prayers, Cas is proof of that.

 

Thoughts of the fallen angel are enough to drag Dean's thoughts away from that dangerous. There's literally nothing that could be worse than praying to Lucifer.

 

 _Did Sam pray to him?_  The thought is painful, and Dean doesn’t want to think about how it went down. What drove Sam to make speak the word, if it was Lucifer who caught him, or Sam who called for Lucifer. The end game is still the same, the world is ending, and Dean failed.

* * *

The floor is cold but soothing, tempering the fire beneath his skin that the alcohol had placed there. He can't remember the last time he'd been this drunk, knows there'll be hell to pay for it come tomorrow, but that's a problem he'll deal with then.

 _If_ _there_ _even is a tomorrow_.

He gives a bitter laugh at the thought. It's not likely the world will end tonight, but at least he'll be saved a hangover if it does.

He closes his eyes, and it feels like only a moment before he feels a hand on his arm, someone shaking him and speaking words that can't quite make it into his brain.

“Get offa me,” he says, or tries to say. The words come out a croak, his mouth dry and his throat dryer.

His message doesn't get through, or is ignored, and there's nothing for it but to open his eyes and acknowledge his tormentor.

The addition of sight doesn't do much to help his situation, the bathroom is a blur and Dean can make out colours at most. There's the off white he recognises as the colour of the shitty bathroom wall, the grey of the tiles, and the lime green of the shower curtain. There's only a blue Dean doesn't recognise, swimming in front of him.

He pushes himself to sit up with a groan, and rubs the grit from his eyes. This time when he opens his eyes, he recognises the face in front of him.

“What are you doing here Cas?” He asks with a groan.

“I was worried for you.”

“Did you know?”

Cas looks away. And that speaks volumes. “I suspected. The angels went...quiet”

Cas pauses again. “I think they've left. I seem be—I think I might be falling.”

“What’s that mean then? You gonna be fighting for realty with Jimmy?”

“No” Cas says, his voice barely a whisper. “Jimmy's gone too.

 _It's_ _like being strapped to a comet,_ Jimmy had once said, and Dean tries not to think of what that means. Of what that would feel like. If Cas was a comet and Raphael left vegetables in his wake then what would Lucifer the archangel—the King of Hell—do to his brother.

He tries not to think about it.

“So you're all alone.” There's a flash of hurt, and Dean feels a flash of guilt for his words. He hadn't meant it like that—hadn't meant to make Cas feel bad.

“Just like me.”

Not when he's going through the same thing.

Dean lost his brother and Cas lost all his brothers. Dicks though they might have been, that's still gotta hurt and Dean knows what it feels like to be left behind by family.

It sucks.

It's not a competition, they're both hurting.

Later he'll blame it on the booze. But that's already burned off enough in his veins, and drunk though he might be he's not gone enough to do anything he doesn't want to do.

He doesn’t have a reason, doesn’t have an excuse. When Dean reaches out and places his hand on Cas's collar bone, it just feels like like the right thing to do.

Cas goes easily with him when he tugs him in. He may not be a fully powered angel anymore, but he's strong enough to stop Dean if he wants. When their lips come together Cas is still though, unmoving, and it makes Dean second guess himself, has him pulling away to ask, “Do you want this?”

Cas's Adams apple bobs as he swallows, and Dean let's his eyes track that for a moment, before pulling back to eyes so blue they put oceans to shame.

“I want to want this,” Cas says, evasively, “I'm not sure I—”

“So want then,” Dean cuts him off, “and have.”

It's self-centred Dean knows, but he does want this, wants the heat of another's body and the distraction that brings, but he thinks Cas wants it too, even if he's unfamiliar with the feelings, with the process.

Dean slides his fingers underneath Cas's trench coat, feeling soft warm skin.

Dean wants to kiss it—so he does, leaning forward and fixing his lips against the skin there. The gasp Cas releases is like music to his ears and it spurs Dean on. He brings his other hand to Cas's hip, slipping beneath the damn trench coat, beneath the jacket, till there's only a thin layer of shirt underneath his fingers. It does little to mask the fire beneath his skin, but Dean wants to feel it properly.

He surges, pushing Cas back, and slinging a leg over Cas's thigh. His lips follow a trail up Cas's neck, rubbing over stubble he's seen so many times, but never had the chance to feel. It prickles at his lips, but Dean can't find it in himself to care, and part of him even _likes_ the harsh texture, with just a tickle of pain.

Dean nibbles at Cas's jawline, tongue flicking out to lick the skin and stubble beneath his mouth as his hands get to work on Cas's buttons. It's not as easy as his own, impeded by the reversed position, the unfamiliar shirt, and his own inability to pull away from Cas's jaw, not even to give himself space to accomplish the task, but eventually he gets the shirt undone.

Cas gasps straight into Dean's ear when his hands finally fall on skin. Cas's is soft and warm and when Dean's hands skate over rib bones he flinches—just a little. The response is so human Dean's surprised enough to pull away, to finally break the contact and stare at Cas.

“How human are you?” he asks, eyes locked with Cas's, and his voice is a little breathless. His hands are still on Cas, and Dean can feel the quick inhales underneath his ribs—he's definitely not the only one thinking about this.

“Enough.”

Dean tries again.

“How Angel are you?”

Now Cas's eyes drop away, sliding sideways to the wall behind him.

The moment drags on, and Dean can feel it all slipping away from him, and that's the last thing he wants. It's a question for another time anyway, so Dean moves reignite the moment, hands moving up to Cas's tie, pushed aside in Dean's rush, but not removed. Dean's hands come up, and there's something oddly tender about it as he pulls the material from its knot. He can feel Cas watching him as he drops the tie to the ground.

The cold floor is killer on his knees, and Dean's not as young as he once was. He tosses it up for a moment, bringing his hands back to Cas's stomach as he does so, and kissing the skin made accessible by the removal of the tie—the bathroom is cold, and cramped, the bed makes more sense but Dean hesitates, thinking it over. Moving to the bed feels like admitting this is _something._

But the world is ending so why the hell not.

Dean pushes himself to his knees, ignoring the cracks and creaks in his joints, and pulls Cas up to join him. Dean doesn't say a word as he has walks back to the bedroom, just walks away, expecting Cas to follow—and he does, following after Dean like he has so many times before.

The trench coat needs to go. Dean crowds in against Cas, pushing their bodies together, before aligning their lips in a kiss that's just this side of bruising.

There's a moan, though Dean isn't sure if it's his or Cas's, but he uses his advantage to push the coat from Cas's shoulders, the tan material falling to the ground with a rustle that's both familiar to—and nothing like—the sound Cas makes when he angels into a place.

The shirt and jacket go next, sliding off easily to the ground, and Dean doesn't give them another thought.

He can feel his cock straining at his jeans, and when he pushes in closer Dean feels Cas's own erection nudging against his thigh.

Cas breaks the kiss with a moan that causes a fresh surge of pleasure to rush through his veins.

He wants more.

He pushes Cas back with his body until legs bump against the side of the bed. His legs buckle as Dean continues to push, pressing him down to the cheap hotel mattress.

Dean looks down at him, taking in the angel in front of him—or not-so-angel as it may be—but he doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to think about the way Cas is looking up at him either, eyes full of something too bright, too reverent, too emotional. Dean drops his eyes from Cas’s, taking in his body instead, taking the moment to observe the body he’d disrobed.

He’s never seen Cas like this, and he seems smaller somehow, like by taking off Cas’s suit Dean had removed a layer of his being. _Like babushka dolls_ —his brain supplies unhelpfully, and he pushes the thought away in favour if letting his eyes devour what his hands will get to touch—have already touched in parts. Cas is just a man—or a falling angel in a mans body, and his body has soft edges just like Dean’s, a hint of softness at his stomach, and Dean’s torn between the cut of his shoulders, the lines of muscles there, and wanting to fix his lips to Cas’s stomach, to kiss and lick at the skin there.

He does neither in the end, instead allowing his eyes to follow the trail of hair down, to where Cas’s pants still sit.

They need to go.

“Lie back,” Dean says, his voice huskier than he’d been expecting, choking on his own arousal. He is hard, achingly so, dick pressing almost painfully against his jeans. He can see Cas’s own erection tenting his pants, and that’s his first goal though. He squeezes his dick, sends a wish to it to mind its own business for now, and moves to slip between Cas’s legs. He reaches for Cas’s belt, fingers swiftly unbuckling and sliding from the belt loops, before reaching for his pants button.

He doesn’t mean for his hand to brush against the bulge in Cas’s pants, but it does, causing a groan to fall from Cas’s lips. Dean’s hand jerks back in shock, only to return a moment later. He needs to hear the noise again. It’s the most human sound he's ever heard from Cas, unencumbered by any of the usual barriers that stand between them.

_It's more than just a pity fuck._

The thought in unwelcome, catching him off guard, and Dean shoves it aside. He presses down hard against Cas’s dick, in a way he knows from experience can blur the line between pleasure and pain, before withdrawing his hand altogether. The moan that falls from Cas’s lips is desperate, and Dean holds onto that, using that as his motivation. _This is all just two people taking comfort in each other_ he tells himself, ignoring how wrong the words feel even inside his own head.

Dean makes quick work of Cas’s pants, undoing them and sliding them from Cas’s legs as Cas lifts his hips from the bed. He moves quickly, trying to use action to drown out the words and feelings floating in his brain, grabbing the lube from his duffle before returning to the bed, shuffling Cas up the bed, and taking a space between his legs.

“This is okay right?” he asks, when his fingers are already coated in the lube, hesitating just shy of touching Cas. He wants this, maybe more than he wants to admit, but he only wants this if Cas does too. This is probably Cas’s first time. Cas deserves more than this probably, but if there’s anything Dean knows it’s that life doesn’t work give you what you deserve, so you need to take what you can get.

“Yes,” Cas bites out, and his voice sounds breathless, and Dean doesn’t question it further, slipping a finger inside Cas.

Cas bites out a moan, or maybe Dean does. He’s not sure really. Cas is warm inside, and oh so tight, and he reminds himself that this is probably, most likely, almost definitely the first time Cas has done this and tries not to think about how he’s defiling an angel as Cas’s ass tenses around his finger.

“Relax,” Dean tells him, because he needs to. Cas is so tight, and he needs to relax, needs to _let Dean in_ if they ’re going to do this. He’s still surprised when Cas does, finger sliding in deeper until his knuckles brush up against Cas’s ass. Dean slides his finger back, before sliding another in beside it . This time it ’s definitely Cas who groans, a deep noise which sends a flash of arousal so sharp Dean’s dick _hurts_.

It’s a rush job at best, and Dean pushes down the thought that Cas deserves better than this too. Cas deserves better than a lot of things really, but this is what he’s getting, Dean’s rush prep job. Dean’s hands are sticky with lube as he undoes and pushes his jeans down, just enough to get his own dick out, and then Dean pushing inside him, long and slow until finally, finally, Dean is fully sheathed in Cas.

Dean leans over Cas, holding still and waiting for Cas to adjust to him. They’re both gasping for air, and when Cas opens his eyes to look up at him his eyes are glassy, and it’s too much, too close to something like reverence.

Dean drops his eyes, shutting them tight, and gives a roll of his hips.

This time they both groan.

It’s not elegant, far from it, it’s sweaty—and Dean pushes down the thought that Cas shouldn’t be sweating, that angels don’t sweat—as Dean thrusts, and Cas rolls his hips against him. Cas’s breath is coming heavier, and Dean can feel the arousal pooling in his stomach, so he shifts his weight to one hand, leaning in closer to Cas as he frees his hand and brings it to Cas’s cock to wrap around tight.

The noise Cas makes is enough to earn to earn them a thump against the wall.

Dean’s an ass, but he’s not so much of an ass as to keep the neighbours up, so he does the only thing he can think of, dropping his lips to Cas’s to smother the noise, capturing the next yell inside his mouth.

His hips grow jerky, and his hand isn’t much better. Cas’s arm comes up to grip at Dean’s forearm where it’s holding his dick. His fingers are so tight Dean thinks he can feel it in his bones, and a part of him looks forward to the bruises which will surely appear.

“Let it go Cas,” Dean breaks the kiss to whisper, and barely a moment later he does. Dean only half captures the sound, lips smothering too late, and it earns them another bang of the wall. Dean ignores it as Cas pulsing around him makes his brain white out, makes him see stars behind his eyes, as he thrusts, once, twice, three times more as he comes inside Cas.

* * *

The come down feels worse than a hangover, he’s sticky and sweaty, and even Dean can smell the alcohol on his skin, the way it lingers. He tries to shove down the self loathing as he strips his shirt off, uses it to clean the mess from his skin and Cas’s. Cas seems even more exhausted, collapsed down on the bed beside him, and Dean doesn’t have the heart to move him, just wipes at his skin, before pulling up the sheets over him. Cas grumbles, but doesn’t move, and Dean leaves him be, walking to the other single in the room.

 _Sam’s bed_.

Sam isn’t here of course, but he always takes the bed by the door, and looking at it, Dean’s world tilts and his stomach twists.

He can’t do it.

He pulls the sheets from the bed, turning away. He grabs his duffle bag, careful to use the part with his clothes in it, and not the first aid kit, and lies down on the floor.

_He'_ _s slept in worse places before._

 

 _Where's Sam sleeping tonight,_ is his last thought, before exhaustion finally overcomes him, and his thoughts finally fade away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Comments and Kudos give me life  
> Find me at tumblr at [candybarrnerd](http://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/)


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